


The Lady and her Laird

by gray_autumn_sky



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gray_autumn_sky/pseuds/gray_autumn_sky
Summary: Brianna is about 4 years old when she discovers a book about Scottish estates at the library. Curious, she asks Claire to tell her a story about the people who lived there. At first, Claire is reluctant, not wanting to break her promise to Frank despite the already present strain on their marriage; but when Bree insists, she finds a way she can tell her about the Lady and Laird of Lallybroch without revealing herself to be a character in her own story.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	The Lady and her Laird

Claire Randall sits with the day's copy of the _Boston Globe_ folded over her lap watching as her four year old daughter browses an aisle of books much too old for her.

For the last several months, the library has been Brianna's favorite place to be, so over the last several months the two of them had spent hours upon hours browsing the stacks.

They always start in the children's section, picking out new picture books to read at bedtime. There's a puppet rack there, filled with stuffed versions of some of Bree's favorite characters, and a little table of puzzles she likes to try her hand at, marveling at the way the pieces fit together. Then, when she's through, they head over to the newspapers and magazines. Usually, Brianna settles with a stack of magazines ranging from _National Geographic_ to _Ladies Home Journal_ flipping through them slowly as she points out exotic animals from continents far away and deserts she'd like to eat. Sometimes, Claire sits with her, reading some of the articles and answering Bree's questions, and other times, Bree is content on her own, giving her mother the opportunity to catch up on the week's news.

But today, Bree's decided she wants to look at the books, not magazines.

Claire smiles as she watches Bree slowly perusing the section, her fingers gently touching the spines as her eyes linger over the titles she can't yet read, and she wonders what sort of make believe world her daughter's imagining herself in. She takes a wistful breath as Bree zeroes in on a book of particular interest to her, her head tilting slightly as she leans forward and narrows her eyes—and in that moment, she can't help but notice how much like her father she seems.

How like _Jamie_ she is—the same glint of curiosity in her eyes, the same look of wonder over her face, the same satisfied smile on her lips.

Every day it's apparent; every day there's something that she notices. Sometimes it's a look or an action, other times, it's something that she says. But always, no matter what, it nearly takes her breath away.

Swallowing hard, she forces her thoughts away from Bree for just a moment, fighting against the dull ache that settles in her chest whenever she allows herself to think of what might have been… what _should_ have been...

Then suddenly, she's very conscious of the manilla envelope at her side, an item plucked out of the day's mail just before she and Bree left for the library. She'd requested it the month before, then promptly put it out of her mind. On most days, the idea didn't seem like such a far leap. She had the interest and the background, she was a hard worker and learned quickly. She knew she could compete, that wasn't the question. However, there were other days when enrolling in medical school seemed like such a stretch of the imagination. She was far older than the average student, and despite Harvard's claim that female applicants got the same consideration as their male counterparts, she wasn't naive enough to think those applications didn't meet extra scrutiny. And then there was the complication of Frank.

She'd been thinking about the possibility of medical school since Bree was a baby, and never once had she mentioned it to him. At first, it was just an idea and an impractical one at that. Bree needed her and Bree was her first concern. But as she grew older and kindergarten loomed in the not-so-distant future, medical school seemed less and less an impractical dream. Still, she hadn't told Frank. She imagined broaching the subject would go something like the conversation about citizenship, and so she put it off again and again, not wanting another fight.

For years now, they'd been going in seperate directions, drifting further and further from one another. Everything was always such a fight and no matter what they seemed destined to be at odds. Of course, she understood it—she'd fallen in love with someone else and as the years passed, it was more than obvious to both of them that that love wasn't going away. It wasn't something she could move past. In her heart, she'd always known they'd end up here, but still, the bitterness that was seeping between them had taken her aback.

Two years before, she'd offered him a divorce in hopes they could salvage their friendship. Frank balked at the idea and so they were stuck—she was stuck living half a life in the present and half a life in the past...

Bree suddenly catches her attention. The little girl is standing on the bottom shelf, leaning up on her tip-toes and reaching for a shelf she can't quite reach. Before she can even process what Bree is doing, she's on her feet and moving toward her, watching wide-eyed as a thick, dusty book tumbles to the floor and lands with a loud, echoing thud.

Her heart races, but Bree smiles and plops down in front of the book, looking so smugly satisfied with herself, and again, looking so much like her father.

"Castles, Mama," Bree says, looking up at her with bright eyes. "Look!"

Taking a breath and swallowing hard, Claire crouches down beside her. "You scared me half to death." Bree looks up at her, puzzled. "Next time you want something you can't reach, come and ask me and I'll get it down for you."

"I'm sorry."

Claire grins and nods, her eyes shifting to the now open book—and shifting to a photograph of Castle Leoch.

Holding her breath in her lungs she stares at the image, not needing to see the caption below to know she's looking at the front entrance. Just looking at it, she can almost hear horses trotting up the path and Rupert or Angus calling out something vulgar.

"How did they get the bricks so high?"

"Hm?"

"The bricks," Bree says, pointing up to the very top of the castle. "How did they get them all the way up there?"

Claire blinks. "Oh, um… I'm not sure. Ladders, probably."

Bree nods, again looking at the castle. "Does a king live there?"

"No…"

"A queen?"

Without thinking, she shakes her head. "No, a Chieftain and his family lived there."

Bree nods and looks back. "What's that?"

Claire blinks, her heart fluttering and aching with nostalgia as she considers a simple answer. "Well, a chieftain is the head of a clan… which is… like a big family." She pauses for a moment. "He'd also be called a Laird."

Bree giggles and tries the word for herself, then giggles again.

"It's like… the lord of a great estate," Claire explains. "The man in charge."

For a moment, Bree is quiet. Claire thinks that might be the end of it—and then, Bree fires off a string of questions, asking them all one right after another, not waiting for her mother's reply to any of them. Finally, when she's through, Claire exhales a breath and stands up, offering her daughter her hand. "If we are going to spend the afternoon flipping through this book and finding the answers to all of your questions, we'll at least do it at a table and not sprawled out on the floor where someone's likely to trip over us."

Giggling, Bree scoops up the heavy book and lets her mother guide her back to the main section of seating near the magazines.

"Alright, let's have a proper look at this…"

"Did everyone live in the castle?"

"No, there are farms around it, and a village not far off, and—" Claire's voice stops abruptly as she looks to Bree, "Or so I'd imagine."

Bree flips the page to reveal another castle that Claire vaguely remembers, but can't quite pin-point. Nonetheless as she tries to remember it, Bree points out the details she likes and decides it would be even better with a moat.

"A moat?" Claire laughs. "And what good would that be?"

"To keep out trespassers! And they could fill it with crocodiles!"

Claire's brow arches as she remembers the generations-old animosity between certain clans and as she considers it, she can't help but think that Colum Mackenzie would agree with his great-niece's suggestion, or at the very least be amused by it.

They spend the better part of an hour flipping through the book, and Claire does her best to keep the memories at bay. Bree's questions keep her in the moment and she prides herself on her ability to answer them without allowing personal details to seep in—and then, Bree flips the page and suddenly she's staring at Lallybroch. Tears flood her eyes and threaten to spill down her cheeks as she stares at the one place that ever felt like home. She thinks of Jenny and Ian, of their children, of Mrs. Crook, and of course, of Jamie. She remembers how she and Jenny would laugh as they hung up the wash, how her nieces and nephew would get tangled in her skirt, and how much she enjoyed the family dinners they'd have. Her throat tightens as a memory flickers, and she can almost feel Jamie's hand forming around hers as he leads her up to their bedroom, drawing her close as soon as the door is shut.

"I… think that's enough for today," Claire says, closing the book as she swallows the lump at the back of her throat. "We need to get home and start working on dinner."

Bree's brow furrows with disappointment, but she doesn't argue—and when Claire shifts the conversation to choosing a dessert for that evening, Bree seems to have all but forgotten the castles and grand estates of Scotland.

* * *

Brianna is standing on a stepping stool, a too-big apron wrapped around her and her red curls pulled back in a ribbon as she mixes the contents of a banana pudding package with milk.

Claire watches as she pulls the plastic off a ready-made pie crust trying her best not to look at the clock, trying her best not to notice how late Frank is. His last class ended hours ago.

It's no surprise to her when the phone rings nor is it a surprise when she finds Frank on the other line explaining that he's swamped with exams to grade and won't be home for a few more hours. She sighs with disappointment—not for herself but for their daughter—as she tersely informs Frank that Bree wanted to surprise him with a banana cream pie for dessert. For a moment, Frank pauses and she thinks he might change his mind.

"Tell her we'll have it for breakfast," Frank says. "I think she'll like that."

Claire's jaw tense and her eyes press closed. Of course she will—what child wouldn't want pie for breakfast?—but that doesn't mean she won't be upset tonight. "I'll tell her."

"It'll be hours," Frank tells her. "Don't wait up."

Her eyes roll. She wouldn't have anyway.

They end the call and for a moment, she just stands there, head bowed as she stares down at the phone. It was the end of the semester and grades were due. Frank's excuse was valid and he was likely sitting at his desk in his office with a stack of filled blue books in front of him. But just because his excuse was valid tonight didn't mean that it always was, and it didn't take away from the fact that he hadn't been home once for dinner that week, or that Bree would notice it.

It'd been her idea to lead separate lives as long as it was done discreetly, but that didn't mean it didn't sting to know Frank was doing exactly that—and how discrete was he being if a four year old could figure it out?

"Sweetheart," Claire calls before reentering the kitchen. "That was—"

She stops when Bree looks up at her with wide, bright eyes.

"This is my favorite part," Bree giggles, picking up one of the cans of Reddi Whip. "You can do it, too. We'll race!"

Grinning, Claire nods and accepts the can—disappointment can wait.

They empty two cans of Reddi Whip into the banana pudding, racing to see whose can finishes first—and when Bree wins, she laughs out triumphantly.

Together they finish the pie, carefully placing it in the refrigerator before moving on to preparing dinner. She waits until it's nearly ready before telling Bree that it'll just be the two of them—and when she does, Bree's disappointment is palpable, not even the promise of pie for breakfast cheers her.

"Daddy usually tells me a story," Bree says just after her bath. "Before bed," she adds, twisting the sleeve of her pink pajamas between her fingers. "Will he be home by then?"

Claire grits her teeth. "No, sweetheart, he won't be. He has lots of exams to grade." Bree nods and pretends to understand. "But I can tell you a story. We can pick a book and—"

"I want to know more about the castles!"

Claire blinks and feels hesitation bubbling up inside of her.

She's not supposed to talk about her past. She's not supposed to ever let on that she led another life or loved another man. She isn't supposed to think of him. It was a promise she made to Frank just as much as it was a promise she made to herself—and when she made it, she truly thought it'd be a promise she could keep. After all, there was no point in chasing ghosts.

What she didn't account for was that he didn't need to be chased.

Jamie was everywhere she looked. Not a day had gone by since she went through the stones and returned to her own time that she didn't think of him. She thought of him whenever she had a glass of good Scottish whiskey or ate venison stew; she thought of him whenever she saw dragonflies glide through the thick summer air and she thought of him when cool fall winds picked up, blowing her curls all around her face. She thought of him whenever she needed advice or wanted someone to comfort her—and she thought of him each and every time she looked at their daughter.

"Sure," she says, giving in to both Bree and herself. "I can tell you more about the castles."

Taking her by the hand, she leads Bree to the couch, lifting her up and smiling as the girl cuddles into her side. She covers them up with a heavy knit afghan and draws in a breath, breathing in the soft smokey smell of the fire crackling at the hearth—and when she closes her eyes, it's almost like she's _there_.

"How about I tell you about the Laird and Lady of Lallybroch?" Opening her eyes, she looks down at Bree, watching as she nods, and in spite of herself, she feels a smile tugging up at the corner of her mouth as she considers where she should start. "I think the most important thing to know about them is that they loved each other, very, very much, despite that their marriage wasn't one of their choosing."

Bree's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"They were friends first and then they married because… well, they had to. It was all arranged for them."

"Why?"

"To protect the lady from harm," she replies, a lopsided little grin tugging at the corner. "But they both had a secret."

Bree's eyes widen with intrigue. "A secret?"

Claire nods, giving into her smile. "Yes, they both secretly loved one another, they just didn't know the other felt the same way."

"That's silly," Bree says with a giggle.

"It was rather silly," Claire says, remembering it. "But that's sort of… the middle of the story, and I think a proper place to start is the beginning, don't you?"

Bree nods and cuddles closer, resting her head on her mother's arm. Leaning in, Claire presses a kiss to her hair, closing her eyes and remembering the night she first met Jamie Fraser.

"He was injured when they met," she explains. "A dislocated shoulder—nothing major, but very painful and she was brought to him to fix it." Drawing in a breath, she hesitates, "She was a healer, you see."

"Like you were in the war."

Claire feels her throat tighten. "Yes, like me."

She goes on to tell Bree more about her first encounter with Jamie, changing some of the details, but mostly remaining true to their tale.

She explains that "the lady" didn't have anywhere else to go, that she was a stranger in a strange land, and so "the laird" and his family decided to take her hope with them. Though she was scared, she went along willingly, and was glad that her skills were deemed useful—and of course, she was glad to have the opportunity to check in on the laird to make sure that he was healing properly.

"Is that when they became friends?"

"Yes," Claire says, nodding. "He even gave her a nickname." At that, Bree grins. "He called her Sassenach."

Bree giggles. "That's a funny name!"

"It means outlander, or outsider in Gaelic."

"Because she was from a far away land?"

"Yes."

Claire feels her breath catch in her chest and for a moment, it's difficult for her to breathe. She hasn't heard that name said aloud in years—and even though it was her voice that finally uttered it, she heard it in Jamie's.

"So the lady kept checking in on him, and in return, he taught her the ways and customs of his clan—"

"So she wasn't such a sassenach?"

Claire grins as she feels warm tears welling in her eyes, and to hide them she leans in and presses a kiss to the top of Bree's head. "No, so she was _his_ Sassenach."

She goes on to tell Bree about some of the customs and traditions of the Mackenzies at Castle Leoch, and how in some ways the laird was just as much of an outsider as the lady.

She tells her about the gathering, remembering Jamie's atypical oath to the clan—and as she tells Bree about it, she finds her thoughts shifting to the oath Jamie later made to her.

"But you see, despite caring a great deal for him, the lady still missed home," Claire explained, struggling to remember the pull she'd then felt to return to her life with Frank. "And so when she traveled with the clan to collect the rents from all of the tenants, she planned an escape."

"Did the laird stop her?"

"Not quite—or at least not intentionally."

"Oh—"

"Her plan went terribly awry and she needed to be rescued."

Bree looks up at her with expectant eyes. "Did the laird rescue her?"

She laughs and shakes her head, watching as Bree's smile fades. "No, his uncle did—but here's where the story really gets good."

In the most simplistic of ways she explains Dougal's proposal that Jamie and Claire should marry to keep Claire safe from the British. Bree listens as Claire goes into detail about her wedding dress and how her hair was done—and when she finds herself telling Bree about the ring the laird had made for the lady, she finds herself hiding her hand beneath the Afghan as not to draw any attention to it.

"It was made from a key," she explains as her thumb rubs against the ring. "From a key to the place that would one day be their home—the key to Lallybroch."

Her voice hitches when she calls Lallybroch home—even though it's been a lifetime since she lived there, Lallybroch still feels like home to her.

She tells Bree about the ceremony and how they spent that night getting better acquainted, leaving out the intimate details of that night and focusing instead on the feelings. Her chest aches with longing as she tells her about the stories Jamie told her of his childhood, the confessions she made of her own past, and how by the end of it, it was hard for each of them to keep their secret from the other any longer.

A little giggle bubbles out of Bree, bringing Claire back into the present moment. "You mean that they were in love?"

And this time, Claire giggles right along with her. "Yes," she admits. "Very much so—and after they finally admitted it, that love—the bond they shared—well, it only deepened." Taking a breath, she closes her eyes, pushing back the tears that want to fall as she remembers. "They went on a picnic the next day, just the two of them—" Smiling, she opens her eyes and looks to Bree, knowing her words can never do the breathtakingly gorgeous, green landscapes of the Scottish Highlands justice. "That was such a beautiful day."

"Was it really warm and sunny?"

Claire laughs—it was the exact opposite of warm and sunny, and when she called it a 'beautiful day' she hadn't been talking about the weather. "It rained, actually."

"They went for a _picnic_ in the _rain_?" Bree asks incredulously. "Didn't they get all wet?"

Claire nods. "They didn't care."

"I would have," Bree decides. "It doesn't sound like a very nice day."

"To them it was," Claire says, not elaborating much more on the picnic itself, instead shifting the story toward the dragonfly in amber they'd received as a gift—a good luck charm, they'd believed. Bree agrees that it probably was, fascinated by the mystical nature of it as she wonders aloud if the charm worked for them.

"For a time, it did," Claire murmurs, pushing away the memory of giving the stone to Jamie, hoping in vain that it might protect him at Culloden, instead focusing on those early days of marriage when they were both deliriously happy.

She tells Bree a few short, but sweet, stories of how the the lady and the laird spent their time getting acclimated with one another, stealing kisses when they could, and making plans for what they had to believe would be a long and happy life together. She shares a watered down version of why Jamie was living with the Mackenzie's at Castle Leoch, skimming over the unpleasant memories of the Duke of Sandringham (and leaving out any mention of Black Jack Randall entirely) as she explained that a day soon came where the Laird and Lady were finally able to return home to Lallybroch.

Claire shares a little of their journey—how they rode side by side on their horses, talking and laughing, dreaming of what their new life would be like. For her—for the lady, that is—it was the first place she could really ever call home and it was all so hard for her to picture. But the laird insisted she would fit in, that she'd be happy, and she'd learned to trust his word.

Bree laughs out as Claire explains some of the petty fights Jamie and Jenny got into on their first days at Lallybroch—of course, she omits some of the darker details—and focuses on things like arguments over when and how things should be done. She laughs too remembering one evening by the fire, long after wee Jamie had been put to bed, Jenny watched Jamie patching an old pair of old woolen stockings. After a minute or so she'd declared that her brother was doing it all wrong, practically snatching the socks to show her brother the _correct_ way—and of course, he snatched them right back insisting he knew what he was doing.

"Like you, I didn't have any siblings. I didn't know that people could fight about unimportant such things." She stops, realizing that she's suddenly inserted herself into the story, but Bree didn't seem to notice.

"What else did they fight about?"

"Oh, everything, and usually silly little things," Claire says, half laughing and half sighing. "They made their own butter on the farm, and they fought about that."

"Butter?" Bree asks, her eyes widening. "How can you fight about butter?"

"Well, you see the laird liked it thick but his sister liked it softer because it was easier to scoop and spread—but of course, that making it softer took more time."

Bree giggles as she considers that. "I bet it was the laird who had to make it."

"Sometimes it was," Claire says, grinning back as she remembers how her arms ached after an hour or so of churning. "They all took turns, really, and just had very different ideas of what done looked and tasted like."

Bree smiles and looks to the fire. "I bet it's fun having a sibling to fight with."

Claire's eyes fall to her lap, her stomach flopping as she thinks of Fergus, the boy she'd loved as a son. She smiled a bit wistfully, remembering how he called her "milady," his thick French accent putting emphasis on the first vowel, emphasis on the fact that she was his. Her eyes close as she remembers the last time she saw him, riding off toward Lallybroch just hours before that fateful battle at Culloden with an important message for Jenny and Ian—she wondered if he arrived safely, she wondered if Jenny and Ian had taken him in, if they'd raised him alongside their own children. Opening her eyes, she looks to her daughter, remembering the way Fergus used to sit at her side—all the while insisting he wasn't a child—as she told him stories to pass the time on the long voyage from France back to Scotland. There was no doubt that Fergus would have loved Bree as a sister, that had Claire stayed in Scotland, he'd have taken the little girl under his wing claiming her as his, just as he'd claimed her parents.

Swallowing hard, she fights back tears once more welling in her eyes as she thinks of the brother Bree will never know about, the brother who lives in another time.

Drawing in a breath, she shifts the story to a happier memory of her and Jamie dancing together by the fire as candles flickered all around them. Everyone else had gone up to bed, but they'd stayed awake, drinking whiskey and talking about the coming Christmas holiday. She can't quite recall how it started—by that point she'd been well past the point of tipsy—but she clearly recalls Jamie pulling her up against him, their bodies slowly swaying back and forth as he hummed a Christmas tune.

Bree listens with fascination as Claire explains some of the old Scottish traditions—traditions she herself had once been fascinated by—and she stops just short of remembering that they'd never actually had the chance to celebrate.

The ever-pending threat of war had seen to that.

"Did they have a Christmas tree?" Bree asks, somewhat abruptly and pulling her mother away from the warm memory. "You didn't mention a tree for them to put presents under."

"They didn't have trees either," Claire tells her. "And the laird thought the only reason to hang up stockings at the fireplace was to dry them off when they got wet." A slow smile edges it's way onto Claire's lips as she remembers Jamie's confused look over why anyone would choose to stuff presents and treats into someone else's sock. "For them, Christmas was more about… celebrating all the good they had in their lives, for remembering all the people who made them happy and feel safe." Reaching out, she strokes Bree's cheek, as always seeing so much of Jamie when she looked at her. "It was about having a home filled with love."

Bree smiles and nods, and then asks for more stories about the fights between the laird and his sister—and Claire willingly obliges, more than happy to get lost in the memories of those she'd loved and left behind.

Eventually, Bree falls asleep against her arm, smiling gently in her sleep. Carefully, Claire picks her up, cradling her little body against her chest as she slowly takes her up to her room and tucks her into bed. "You're _so_ like him, Brianna," she whispers in a voice that's hardly audible. "I wish you could know him, that he could know you." She pauses and stands back up, lingering for just a moment at her daughter's bedside, allowing herself to get caught up in what might have been had history gone another way.

* * *

Before her eyes are even open, Claire feels a dull ache at her temples, the likely result of the whiskey she'd drank the night before after tucking in Brianna.

She groans and rolls over, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep—and then she remembers that it's Wednesday and Bree will be going to the zoo with Millie Nelson and her children.

Groaning again, and this time more audibly, she throws the covers off of herself and reluctantly gets out of bed, hating that her eyes almost immediately search out Frank's bed, noting that it looks messy, an indication that he did make it home the night before.

She feels a pang of guilt as she slips off her nightgown and absently chooses a dress for the day—she shouldn't have been so angry at him for missing dinner, it was, after all, the end of the semester. It was understandable that he'd have more work than usual, and she and Bree had enjoyed a cozy night in.

Frowning, she looks herself over, running her fingers through her hair and deciding she'll deal with that and her makeup later, before making her way downstairs to join Frank and Bree for breakfast.

As promised the banana cream pie sits between them.

Claire smiles gently as she moves to the stove to prepare a cup of tea, listening as Bree talks about hoping to see a giraffe at the zoo.

Frank listens intently, hanging on the girls every word and making suggestions of things she might want to look out for at the zoo. Bree's face lights up as she squirms with excitement at the mention of a butterfly garden.

"That certainly sounds like fun," Claire says, joining the conversation as she reaches for a slice of pie. "I always like having a hot dog with chili on it at the zoo."

Bree nods, but Frank makes a face—she'll never quite understand his reluctance toward all things American.

It's not longer before the Nelson kids are knocking at the door, excitedly calling for Bree. Claire stands, shoving a piece of pie into her mouth before taking Bree to the door.

She makes sure that Bree's jacket is buttoned and her backpack is packed with some sunscreen and money for lunch and souvenirs, and then she sends her on her way, watching and Bree and her friends pile into the station wagon.

She offers Millie a wave as she watches them drive away, and then taking a breath, she rejoins Frank in the kitchen to finish her tea and pie.

It's been so long since they've been alone for breakfast, and for a moment she feels awkward, not quite knowing what to say.

And of course, Frank has already lost himself in the morning's paper.

"You know, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about," she begins, seizing the opportunity to finally bring up her application for Harvard's medical school and hoping it didn't go the way of the citizenship conversation they'd had years before. "I've given this a lot of though, Frank, and I—"

"How could you, Claire?" he interrupts as he drops down the newspaper. His voice is clipped, it's angry and hurt. "Of all the ways you could betray me, this stings the most."

Her eyes widen and her lips part. This obviously isn't about medical school, but for the life of her, she can't figure out what she's done, so her head keeps circling back to the already filled out application in its manilla envelope on the desk, just waiting to be mailed.

And then he tells her.

"You told Brianna. How could you?"

"Told Brianna wh—" Her voice halts at the realization that Bree told Frank about the stories she'd told her the night before. "They were just… stories, Frank."

"Just stories," he scoffs. "You and I know very well what you told Brianna wasn't just some made up story. You entangled her in the fantasy you've been living in for years now." Her lips part to reply, but Frank continues before she has the chance. "And what will you do when she wants to know more? What will happen when you slip up or—" He pauses only to scoff again. "Or is that the intent? You want her to know, don't you?"

Claire swallows hard. Frank isn't wrong, but he also isn't right. She would give anything for Brianna to know Jamie, but she's not deluded enough to think there would ever be a way for that to happen nor is she deluded enough to think that even a four-year-old would believe that she traveled through some stone in Scotland to another time, had a whirlwind love affair only to be forced to return to her own time and live the life she was living now—and if she did, she'd one day grow up and realize how completely insane her mother's story sounded. Even though she'd lived it, there were some days even _she_ still couldn't quite believe it to be true.

"I'm not trying to replace you," she says, reading between Frank's words—after all, that's really what this is about, Frank's place in Bree's life, and one she's always tried to support. "They're just stories to her, Frank. They're nothing more than that. We were at the library and found a book of Scottish estates and—"

"She found it?" His brows arch up. "Or did _you_ find it while you were looking for _him_?"

Her jaw tenses at the accusation. "Brianna was browsing one of the history sections—no doubt that's because it's the section you always end up in when you take her to the library—and she found the book and pulled it down. By the time I got to it, she was already looking at it." Her eyes press closed as she slowly draws in a breath, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. "It was open to a picture of Castle Leoch, and… she wondered about it." Her eyes open and she forces a smile. "You know how she gets when something catches her interest, she—"

"Don't blame this on Bree."

"I'm not! I'm just… explaining what happened, Frank."

"That's all just a little too convenient."

"But it's the truth."

He nods and looks away from her. "You _promised_ me, Claire—"

His voice raises an octave as she feels her shoulders stiffening. She did promise, and she had tried to keep the promises that she made to Frank. But the problem with them was that they were impossible to keep. She couldn't simply turn off her feelings for Jamie, she couldn't just erase the memories, and she couldn't help that she couldn't rekindle feelings she once felt for Frank. She'd tried—if he only knew how hard she'd tried, how she'd struggled against what seemed so innate to her, just to have some sort of normalcy again—but she failed.

"You made promises, too."

Frank's brow furrows as if he doesn't understand. "You're not blaming this on me. You're the one who told our daughter all about your… love affair with another man, a man who—"

"I didn't tell her that."

"Not _this_ time."

His voice drips with accusation and she hates him for it. The guilt she felt just an hour before has all but disappeared.

"You just can't help yourself, can you? You can't just let go?"

"No! No, I can't. I can't _just let go_ , Frank. It doesn't work like that no matter how much you want it to." For a moment, she pauses, her jaw clenched as she stares at Frank, trying in vain not to regret her choice to make a life with him, wondering how things might've been different had they parted ways upon her return. "Besides, I think you've moved on quite enough for the both of us."

He looks injured as though her accusation is without cause. "I was working, Claire."

"Maybe last night that was true, but what about the other nights? Hm? What about the nights you come home late without a reason? What about the nights when you come home smelling like some other woman's perfume or the lipstick smudge on your shirt? What about those nights, Frank?" Her shoulders square as his eyes widen. "What would you tell Brianna about _that_?"

"We agreed—"

"Yes. We did agree," she murmurs, her voice dropping. "How is it, though, that whenever we agree to something in regards to our marriage it only benefits you?"

For a moment, they're both quiet—and for a moment, she thinks an apology might be coming. But then Frank's shoulders stiffen. "There's not… a specific woman," he says. "I'm not… having an affair with someone."

"Oh," she murmurs. "So, it's not an affair if… it's just a fling? Is that it?"

Frank ignores her question, his eyes hardening as he stares at her, all the while reaching for his jacket. "And I'm most certainly not involving our daughter in it."

Frank doesn't give her a chance to reply.

He brushes past her, grabbing his briefcase on the way out and slamming the door behind him. She stands there for a moment, as if rooted in place, hot tears stinging in her eyes.

None of this is normal, none of this bears any semblance to a normal life, the life he'd promised to her—but, of course, that life was even more impossible to attain than returning to the one she'd left behind.

Frank had loved the memory of her and when she could no longer be the woman she used to be, he resented her for it. He hadn't given her time or space to grieve the life that was ripped away from her. He'd never understood why she couldn't simply put it behind her, he had never understood the way those experiences had changed and shaped her—and now he most certainly couldn't understand why she'd wanted to share just a tiny part of that experience with her daughter.

But the thing that stung most about their fight was the confirmation that Frank was allowing himself to move on. Of course, they'd had an agreement—an agreement born out of his resistance to divorce, an agreement that was meant to save some small piece of their relationship—but it was an agreement that left her stuck in a life that only made her bitter.

He'd said there wasn't "someone specific," but it was clear that he was looking, that he was keeping his options open, that he was doing what he could to scrap together a life that brought him some degree of happiness.

And in that moment, she decided to do just that for herself.

Rubbing her thumb over the ring Jamie had given her, she feels a smile tugging up at her lips—she wasn't going to ask for Frank's permission to apply to medical school, and she wasn't going to give him the chance to talk her out of it. He didn't have that right anymore—in truth, he never had.

Walking into the living room, she sits down at the desk and pulls out the manila envelope that holds her completed application to Harvard's medical program—the application she'd been worried over for weeks. For a moment, she just stares down at it. There was no reason not to apply—but more than that there was every reason to apply.

Again, she finds herself rubbing at Jamie's ring, thinking of him and what he'd tell her in this moment—he'd be proud of her, she thinks, remembering the way he'd beam as he announced her as a healer, remembering his steadfast belief that he could cure every ailment. Even now his faith and confidence made her smile…

And then she thinks of Frank. Regardless of whether or not he'd meant to, that morning, he'd reminded her of something important—he'd reminded her of all the promises she'd made and broken over the last few years, including the one she'd made to Jamie when she went back through the stones, that she'd promised to live a life. The details of that promise were murky, at best, but as she looked at the application, nicely sealed and ready to be sent out, she couldn't help but feel this was the best way to honor that promise. She owed that to him. She owed it to herself.


End file.
